Take Care of Them
by Stilwater Rundeepo
Summary: When Captain James Nicholls went away to war, he also left a family behind - his mother and two younger brothers. Told from one of his brothers' point of view, this describes James' last moments with his family and the final message he left behind. (One-shot).


_**"Take Care of Them"**_

_~~/ **a "War Horse" fanfic **/~~_

* * *

The boy heard a small sob from the end of the hall. He slipped his finger through the doorway, cracked it open, and peeked through. Years later, he would remember how the sun shone through the kitchen windows, making the room appear to glow like it was made of gold.

The sob had some from his mother.

She did not cry often. The boy remembered two times when she had. Once, when his father died. Then, when his older brother left for the military academy. Seemed like ages ago, now. There had been a time before that when she also cried, but he was too young to remember it.

"It'll be all right, Mum," came the deep, calm, reassuring voice of his brother.

"I know, James," his mother finally said after she had let out another sob. "I know you'll be all right. You have a good company, don't you?"

"Yes, Mum. They are all good men, and great soldiers. They are prepared for this. You'll have nothing to worry about," he said.

The boy watched as the two figures at the end of the hall closed in embrace. The figure on the right was a thin, pale woman with a faded pink dress and long, thick hair tied back in a loose bun. Her eyes, which had seen too many troubles and shed too many tears to have grown this old so quickly, were lined with creased along the sides. Her hands were calloused along the tips and knuckles from long hours working to keep the house standing, to feed herself and three growing boys, and the husband who was no longer with her. Her dress, her shoes, and her hairstyle were long out-of-fashion, for fashion was a luxury she cared not to spend at the expense of her family. But nevertheless, a timeless and quiet beauty still remained within her—not so much in her features, but in the firm calmness of her voice, and the gentle caress of her worn hands as she wiped away a tear, and the peace that was brought onto oneself simply by being in her presence.

The figure on the left was that of his brother, James. James was ten years his senior, and since their father had died, had become more like a father to his two younger brothers in more ways than not. The reason he decided to attend a military university was to support his family back home, and it turned out to be a worthy choice. For not only did James find his passion and love for the military, but also a new level of fondness and honor found in defending one's homeland and protecting the defenseless. James was tall, with honey-blonde hair parted back smoothly, and sharp cheekbones that showed when he was clenching his jaw, as in, trying not to say something he wanted to say. He was dressed his full military uniform. It made his brother look strong and dignified, almost like he were a noble prince, even though the boy at the other end of the hall knew better.

The boy watched James' leather gloves tighten as he held his mother close. Their mother's face was buried against the shoulder of his green uniform as she forced back another sob. Then James said,

"I will write you all the time. I promise."

The boy smiled. For when James made a promise, he always kept it. Never had he broken another person's trust. That was James. That was his big brother. The brother about to go off to war.

"I'm sorry, but I have to leave a few days early," said James. "I have no horse, and I need time to buy one before I report to my company."

"I understand, James." Their mother pulled back. Her hands rested on her son's shoulders. She looked up into his eyes and forced a smile, forming more creases on the face that had grown too old too fast. "You just come home to us. You hear?"

"Yes, Mum," James said quietly.

"I mean it, now." Her tone grew firm. Firm, yet remaining calm, as always. "When the war is over, we need you back with us. Your brothers, Percy and William. I already lost your father and your sister."

"I know, Mum." James embraced his mother again. That time, the boy could have sworn his brother, who was always so strong and dignified, trembled a bit. It was like he suddenly became a child again, wrapped in his mother's arms. Not a full-grown man heading off to fight the Germans.

Then he pulled away. The boy ducked behind the door and returned to the floor to play with his younger brother, William, who was occupied with his toy truck at the moment. Soon the door creaked open and James stepped inside. His large, shiny, black boots clanked against the wooden planks.

The boy looked up.

"Percy?"

"Yes, James?" asked the boy.

"You're the man of the house, now. You take good care of Mum and Will."

_I'm the man of the house. _Percy sure did like the sound of that. But he did not say it.

"Until you come back to us?" he asked.

James hesitated. He glanced away. His younger brother noticed that the same sort of sadness that sometimes washed away the color in their mother's eyes, could occasionally be seen in James' as well. But that was impossible. James was too young to have eyes that old.

"Yes," James finally said. He smiled down broadly at the boy, and tousled his long dark locks. "Yes, until I come back."

"Bring me a German sword. And letters. You have to write letters."

"Yes, of course I will write letters." James' smile grew, and he began to wrap Percy in an arm lock which he deliberately loosened so that Percy could break free and start to tackle his older brother. Percy laughed as he escaped a second arm lock and attempted, with little success, the same maneuver on James, who rolled the smaller lad onto the floor. "And I will write to _you,_ to make sure _you're_ doing your homework...you're feeding the cows...and that you finally asked Lucy Helling to let you carry her books to school...!"

"All right. I will! I'll ask her!" Percy cried, still laughing.

"Promise?"

"Promise!"

James let go and his brother punched him in the arm. As the seconds wore on, the smile on James' face faded. Then, it was as if it had never been there.

"I'm trusting you," he said quietly. His eyes drifted down to the floor for a moment, then to little William playing with his toys. "Take care of them. You have to take care of them for me, Percy."

Strange how the boy felt as if he were talking to a dead man. It was almost like talking to his father, or the older sister that he had never known.

"You'll come home, won't you, James?"

His brother did not answer at first.

"You promised Mum you would. You _have to _come home."

Finally, James smiled again, but it was a small, sad smile Percy knew indicated anything but happiness. Then Percy felt a strong hand on his shoulder.

"Take care of them, Percy. That's all you need to know."

He let go and held out his hand for the younger brother to shake, a motion indicating that Percy truly was the man of the house now and was about to face new responsibilities in the months to come. Beaming with pride, Percy firmly shook James' hand.

The boy watched his older brother walk back down the hall of that happy, glowing house. It shone with the warmth of daylight and the promise of new spring. But he knew times were about to change. James had to leave them for a while.

He pressed his hand against the window as he watched James walk outside and descend the front porch steps. How he wanted to run up and hold him tight, make James promise that he would come home when he did not have to fight anymore. But Percy knew that men shook hands when they were saying farewell, and that was how it was going to be.

As Percy watched, James slowly made his way to where the military cab was waiting for him at the end of the dirt path to the road. Their mother watched silently outside the door.

"Be safe, James," she called out.

"I will, Mum."

"And write to us."

"I will."

Percy knew there was something else their mother intended to say to James before he left. Something that would mention when their father died and James had to quit his schooling to work on the farm so the family would not go hungry. Something that would refer to when James would read his schoolbooks long into the night so he would not get behind on his studies, and would one day be able to return to school and get an education. Something about a skinned knee his mother's hands cleaned, or a nightmare she chased away by holding him in her arms, or the moment she realized he was no longer a boy but a man. Not just that he would write to them.

But for some reason, she said nothing else. Whatever had been on the tip of her tongue, or deep in the abyss of her heart, was never given flight to be spoken, and remained unsaid and unheard.

That was the moment she would regret the most.

James looked back one last time before he donned his hat, climbed into the backseat of the military cab, and waved goodbye to the glowing house. Percy held William up to the window, and helped him wave. Then the cab pulled away in a cloud of dry, dead dust.

* * *

The first few months of James' departure were quiet and peaceful in the Nicholls household. As James had promised—and he was never one to break a promise—he wrote to them whenever he could. The first letter that arrived detailed the past month or so's events, as James purchased a new horse and reported at his battalion headquarters. He even sent a sketch of his horse, who had been called Joey by his previous owner. When their mother read the letter and found the picture, she smiled to herself. Percy knew that smile, at least, was one of real happiness.

During those months James sent a total of eight letters, and each one was a sacred treasure that their mother would read to Percy and William every night before bedtime, until the next one might arrive.

For the most part, life had not changed much in the house. It still glowed brightly, and the sound of their mother's singing could still be heard down the halls as she worked day in and day out. The farming season would begin soon, but this year they could afford more helping hands, which they were grateful for. But there was an empty space where James, the firstborn son and the oldest brother, had always stood. There was a missing sound of laughter at the dinner table, and absent words of encouragement and bravery. Or perhaps they just missed him.

Then there was the silence.

They did not get a letter for one month. Then two months. And then almost four months.

Percy tried to pretend he was not worried about his big brother. He liked to imagine that James was so busy killing the Germans and leading his company to victory that he simply had no time to write. He liked to imagine that James had survived a serious battle that killed his horse, and he had to go searching for a new horse that would be more efficient for him. Or maybe the war was already over—in some way that they would have not have heard of—and James was not writing just so he could surprise them any day, now, when he returned home with German souvenirs, a battle scar to show that he had fought bravely, and the old sound of his laughter would return to the house once again.

But that was just it.

James had _promised _he would write. Why wouldn't he write for so long?

Once again, there were words on the tip of their mother's tongue, and hidden deep in the abyss of her heat where the worst of fears and nightmares were contained. And, once again, they remained unsaid and unheard.

But Percy knew they were there in the way their mother's hands trembled as she worked in the kitchen or in the garden. In the way her normally calm and firm voice trembled whenever she said his older brother's name.

It was there, and he knew it. But in its place, there was only silence.

* * *

One last letter arrived. It was sent by the telegram delivery boy who rode up the dirt path on his bicycle. Percy was in the kitchen with his mother when it came.

He would remember the long seconds as he waited for his mother to run back inside as she tore open the envelope, and like the past eight times, would bring William into the kitchen so they could read the letter together. Instead, his mother stayed outside on the front porch. Through the window, he could see the delivery boy pedal away and down the road.

Then he heard his mother let out a loud sob.

And Percy felt a black pit form in his stomach. He didn't need to read the letter. He knew what it said.

James had broken two promises. Not just the promise that he would write, but that he would come home to them.

His big brother was gone.

It was after that day that the house no longer glowed. Neither laughter nor singing could be heard in its halls anymore. The ghosts of his brother's rolls of laughter had departed, replaced only with the bell chimes of a war across the ocean that made its way to their doorstep, and snatched their happiness away from them.

The weeks that followed the devastating news of James' death were filled with long nights of suffocating sorrow. It was as if that final letter had sucked all life, laughter, and glow from that house. And overnight, it was as if the house, and their bones, and their faces, had all grown very old.

Percy would always wonder what his brother's final moments were like. Had James been killed instantly, not feeling any pain? Had the minutes dragged on as he lay in the middle of a field or on a bloody gurney? What had been going through his mind? Did he regret failing his comrades in battle, or did he wish he could have seen his family one last time? Did he look death in the eye with bravery and calmness?

He would never know. And no one ever would, that James had died alone lying on the ground, his body ripped apart by bullet holes, surrounded by his dead comrades, as with his last few breaths he cried out for his mother to hold him.

Months later Percy would realize that when James told him to take care of Mum and Will, he was not just temporarily passing on the responsibility. He was ensuring the safety of his mother and youngest brother in the event that he would not return.

When he told Percy he must take care of them, it was for life.

As this dawned on Percy, it was that moment in which he was not a boy anymore. And so, war claims more than one's body.

* * *

_AN:_

_Well, I hope you liked it! Ever since I saw the movie "War Horse" about two years ago I've had this scenario in my head. Since there's not much background on James Nicholls' character I decided to give him a family and a background. I loved the idea of him being an older brother and all. Anyway, if you enjoyed it, please leave a review before you head out!_


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